


A Brief Persuasion

by kalevalaSage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP without Porn, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Kink, Size Queen Enjolras, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalevalaSage/pseuds/kalevalaSage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre’s more uncomfortable with his penis than any man of his age ought to be—he’s nearly thirty, for Christ’s sake, but he still can’t come to terms with the fact that he’s, er, fairly well-endowed (meanwhile, Enjolras can and does and loves it).  So he tucks himself into his boxers and manages to mostly forget about his package and <i>wait no Enjolras what are your tighty-whities doing to my junk</i></p><p>Not crack, despite the Awful Porny Pun Title.  Also no explicit sex (I’m surprised too).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brief Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> I believe this began life as a modern addendum to the kink meme saga I began in response to--wait, no, who am I kidding, this began life as a wet dream and I’m not certain whether my nocturnal emission is a more or less embarrassing revelation than the fanwork I was about to de-anon. Oh, right, and that one time months ago I was dared by Pilf and the Zeppelin to write “platonic dickfic,” but this isn’t it. 
> 
> (“So THAT'S why I never see you publish fic” —[viventlespeuples](http://viventlespeuples.tumblr.com) re: a revelation of my kink meme authorship, though that’s also because I’m still semi-homeless)

Combeferre really and truly doesn’t mean to raid Enjolras’s undergarments; it’s just, after a morning shower ( _at 1 PM_ , nags his inner early riser, _but I’m working nights this week, give me a break_ ) and a fruitless rummage through his own clothes, he’s feeling less inclined to scamper down to the laundry in all his dripping, naked, spectacled glory than to just tiptoe over to his partner’s dresser and retrieve the first pair of britches he spies. He’d ask, but Enjolras is out ( _working normal people hours_ , as the politician whispered earlier that day, climbing out of bed from atop a half-asleep Combeferre) and, really, if he can’t snag a pair of drawers from his boyfriend of six years, what hope does he have romantically?

 

Realistically, Combeferre’s a boxers man, but Enjolras— _ever-mercurial Enjolras_ —goes back and forth and looks to have left most of his briefs unworn this week, and Combeferre’ll be damned if the scarlet pair he’s pilfered doesn’t make him smile at the thought of their owner.  He’s still blushing as he tugs them on, though the pink dusting the doctor’s cheeks soon morphs from an amused embarrassment to a horrified one as he remembers the _reasoning_ behind his underwear choices.  Being in his late twenties, he still has a few years before he ought to trade in his boxers for something more professional, but until then, he’s been…enjoying the extra real estate they afford to him.

 

He could never _forget_ that he happens to be, er, well-hung—Enjolras makes certain of that—but outside of the bedroom (and in it, too, sometimes) he’s a little self-conscious about it.  Or maybe a lot self-conscious about it.  And there is a distinct confidence he’s acquired from the ability to _shove his endowment into a relatively loose set of boxer shorts and pretend it’s not there_.  He’s a doctor, not a porn star.  (He’d be a terrible porn star; he likes his sex vanilla and relies on Enjolras to take the lead.)

 

Anyway there’s kind of _a bulge_ in the vermilion fabric of his borrowed briefs, which show off the _shape_ of his genitals with an audacity his own underpants could never fathom.  With the onset of the squishy, _constricted_ feeling, even though Combeferre knows an alteration in surface area won’t do anything about volume he starts hoping his nerves will set off his _musculus cremaster_ and maybe minimize his package.  He’s equal parts shower and grower (after a far-too-enthusiastic measurement by his far-too-persuasive boyfriend, the numbers they came up with are 5” flaccid, 7.9” erect; Enjolras calls it 8 but _Combeferre is going to take whatever fractions of inches his self-confidence can get, thank you Enj_ ) and while the _protrusion_ is mitigated significantly after Combeferre has stepped into his dress pants, he can’t help but pray that he can magically manage to launder his undergarments in the hour before he needs to leave for work.  And then take off these godforsaken briefs and never tell Enjolras what happened.

 

He can’t.  He has the time to haul his hamper to the apartment laundry downstairs, seat _Anna Karenina_ pointedly on his lap for the duration of the wash cycle, and curse briefly at his inability to squeeze in a dryer cycle, after which he troops back up to the apartment, sets his clothing on the rack in their little balcony, and consider himself in a mirror.  Relative to his not insignificant contemplation of the fictional Russian aristocracy, his ordeal seems trivial, but he does hope that, when he gets to the hospital, his lab coat will cloak what remains of his worries.

  

 

\--

 

The coat does, indeed, make the bulge less noticeable.  Or maybe Combeferre was being neurotic and no one’s paying that much attention to his dick to begin with.  Either way.

 

 

\--

 

That said, it’s still a relief when Combeferre gets home just shy of 3 AM, crossing the threshold quietly so as not to wake his sleeping partner.  As is his custom, he strips down to his underpants and t-shirt before brushing his teeth; following that hygienic interruption, he generally collapses into bed, but tonight he decides to step out of his—Enjolras’s—briefs, too.

 

Through the day he’d experienced, at best, the queer and not-unpleasant sensation of testicular support, interchanged with, at worst, the distracting and vaguely painful tingles of pressure and restraint—which were by no means debilitating in terms of his performance at work, but which he’d prefer to go without for the night.  Dropping the garment by the foot of the bed, he rubs his slightly sore balls, realizes what he’s doing and decides it’s less than sanitary, withdraws his hand, climbs under the covers, and turns into the crook of Enjolras’s neck to find sleep.

 

Hours later, Enjolras is trading lazy, somnambular kisses with his boyfriend when the former rises—thank god Combeferre’s schedule is slowly shifting back to traditional waking hours, if not daytime ones, because he’s starting to miss seeing him actually awake—when he first spies, then carefully examines, a flash of red on the floor.

 

If the briefs aren’t there when Combeferre wakes, just shy of midday, he doesn’t notice.

 

 

\--

 

“Take off your pants.”

 

This is not the first thing Enjolras says to him (that’s his “ _Hey, love_ ” answered by a “ _Hello, Enj_ ”), but considering this is the first real conversation they’ve exchanged in nearly a week, Combeferre is a little wary of starting off on that note.

 

It’s absolutely not unusual for Enjolras to be lounging around the apartment at 12:30 with a book and almost no clothing, but it’s still a welcome sight for the doctor crossing into the apartment; where most boyfriends would have a distinct preference between the two, Combeferre is exactly equally cheered by the sight of his partner a) reading his copy of _House of Leaves_ (which he recommended to whines of _but it’s fantasy_ —unaccustomed to most genres outside of philosophy and French literature, Enjolras will probably handle the horror very poorly and the comfort cuddles will be great) and b) barely concealing his limber frame in a threadbare black undershirt and red plaid boxers.  That is to say, while the thought of the Navidson Report doesn’t arouse him so much as the distinct form of his right nipple through his pyjamas, Combeferre-who-just-came-home-from-work still has enough of his wits about him to appreciate both for entirely different reasons.  He’s not horny enough to jump Enjolras at face value.  Yet.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me,” says the blond man Combeferre remembers he’s somehow in love with, his smirk too smug and his gaze too steely to match the coquetry of his tone.

 

“…Let me eat my dinner first.”

 

 

\--

 

Enjolras, by whatever freak of nature, will forever look like a man in progress.  Having never outgrown his towhead, filled out his impossibly lean figure, or grown anything more substantial than scruff on his chin, he’s doomed to a life of being carded in bars, side-eyed at high-brow parties, and dismissed at rallies (sometimes _his own rallies_ ) as the insouciant teenager he resembles.  While none of these prejudices might be deserved, Combeferre frequently goads him about the juvenility of his size kink—though not unkindly, of course, as that quirk, adolescent or no, is what gets Combeferre laid at the end of the day.

 

For all his boyish covetousness (or perhaps because of it), Enjolras’s own penis is far more statistically likely, scoring a notch higher in length and a notch lower in circumference than the mean, and with both partners envying some aspect of the other’s cock it’s a marvel their sex life is as healthy as it is ( _I wish you could take yourself_ , says a thoroughly fucked-out Enjolras, once, but Combeferre raises an eyebrow and makes a face at him, and Enjolras decides his postcoital bliss is impeding his logical thought).

 

Actually, it’s not a marvel: there have been deliberate boundaries in place since the preposterous fight they had the second or third time they slept together ( _You’ve got to have been my size at some point, while I’ll never enjoy having my three-tablespoon testicles cradled_ — _I might have been ‘your size’ for a_ _month or so when I was fourteen?  Look, I’m sorry about my dick, but don’t hyperbolize the volume of my scrotum, do you even know your Imperial measurements?—Get off your scientific high horse; I’ll grant you ‘exaggerating,' maybe, barely,_ _but I’m absolutely not hyperbolizing_ ), and while those boundaries have allowed Enjolras some leeway with respect to his cock worship kink, Combeferre has been firm in insisting that his jokes and “praise” alike are never voiced outside of the bedroom.  Enjolras risks treading that line tonight, and he is afraid.

 

 

\--

 

As Combeferre passes through his nighttime routine, Enjolras hovers nervously around him.

 

“I’ve missed you too, but you look like you’re about to take off, Enj,” Combeferre prompts gently, shooting the other man a look before turning to wash his face.  “What’s the matter?”

 

Enjolras realizes suddenly that he’s been chewing on his lip.  “Nothing.  I, um.”  His boyfriend, bless him, dons an encouraging smile.  “Do you want to…tonight?”

 

Combeferre’s next words are muffled by a towel, but his gently sardonic tone is heard nonetheless: “Being smarter than the average bear, I had some inkling of your desires when you propositioned me outright an hour ago.”  Hesitating before he unbuttons his pants, he searches his partner’s expression.  “Should I be nervous?”

 

“No,” is Enjolras’s quick reply.  Perhaps too quick.  His eyes break contact with that hazel gaze and linger on his printed grey boxers, retrieved from the drying rack earlier that day.

 

“Good,” answers Combeferre, “because I love you, and I’m not.”  He kisses the blond’s pale forehead before placing his toothbrush in his mouth.  “I’ll come to bed in a moment.”

 

 

\-- 

 

“Take off your pants,” Enjolras whispers again, two minutes later, this time from their bed as Combeferre stands over him.  Shrugging, the other man obeys, and the grey boxers come off, pooling around his ankles before he step out of them.

 

“May I come in?”  It’s a double entendre—of course it’s a double entendre.  It’s also a non-traditional lead-in, but they’re a non-traditional couple, and it’s been a week or more and Combeferre is half-hard already, his seven-point-nine inches warming at their sudden exposure to the cool air and a mostly naked Enjolras sporting a brain full of dirty thoughts (mostly naked except, as Combeferre’s dick remembers, _that shirt_ ).  The smaller man nods and Combeferre climbs into his place beside him, all his life’s goals replaced for the moment with a burning desire to bite the offending nipple from earlier that evening, but Enjolras stops him with a hand on his groin.

 

“What were you wearing down here yesterday?” he asks, and it takes Combeferre a second to formulate an answer through his haze of lust.

 

“Oh, I…lost track of the laundry—I borrowed a pair of your briefs.”

 

“So you did,” Enjolras grins, and if Combeferre recognizes the mischievous lilt in his voice, he doesn’t get the chance to comment on it before Enjolras proffers the offending underwear.

 

Combeferre flushes immediately.

 

Maybe the facts of the richness of their scarlet colour and the dimness of the bedside lamp enhance the shadows playing on the fabric, but there’s a definite imprint where a fairly large set of genitals have stretched the front panel— _so that’s why they hurt_ , he thinks—“Anyway, they might as well be yours now.”

 

“Oh my god.  I’m sorry.”  Enjolras’s face is unreadable, so Combeferre glances downward through the corner of his eye (what does he fear more, that Enjolras will be angry or aroused?) only to remember there’s a blanket spread over both of their laps.  Enjolras catches the look and snorts.  Combeferre blushes harder.

 

“So as you’re aware, I’m a pretty small dude—“

 

“You’re _fine_ ,” mutters Combeferre.

 

“—and I, like you, make it a practice to choose underpants appropriate for my size.”  This is where he looks away.  “Much as I’ve enjoyed this as...tangible evidence of your objectively large endowment...I was fairly partial to those, and would prefer if you didn’t stretch out any others.  I’m, ah, sure the experience can’t have been comfortable for you, either.”

 

Combeferre just stares at him.

 

“Anywaythat’swhyIboughtyouthese.”  The words come out in a rush, Enjolras not daring to look at Combeferre as he retrieves a pair of folded navy briefs from under his pillow and all but throws them at his lover.  Combeferre continues to stare, but smiles shakily at Enjolras when the latter finally dares to appraise him with a glance.  Unfolding the garment, Combeferre tries to smooth them out on his lap but shortly notices the contoured pouch, sewn up where a fly would have been, that makes them impossible to lay flat.

 

“Ah. I—thank you?”  There’s a distinct question mark at the end of his thanks, but he hasn’t shut down, so Enjolras is relieved.  “To be honest, love, I’m not certain that jaunt was one I’d willingly replicate.  I… _you_ know about my penile neuroses.  Between the compressive pain and the fact that I dislike consciously _feeling_ my balls, I’m not terribly enthusiastic about the tightness of briefs.”

 

“That’s what the pouch is for,” says Enjolras, simply.  “Just try them on?”

 

Stepping, once again, out of bed (gonads dangling, now, his boner mostly forgotten), Combeferre pulls on the gifted underwear and walks to the mirror, where he first tugs up, then tosses off, his t-shirt.  Enjolras certainly has taste: the elastic lies flat against the white planes of his stomach and thighs, offering discretion where the scrunched-up waistband of his boxers would have left a ridge.  He was right about the countoured front panel, too—the firmer material accommodates him in a smooth curve rather than the explicit, revealing bulge of the previous day, and the tightness is gone, replaced by a gentle support…

 

“You have the genitals of a god,” breathes his boyfriend, suddenly behind him and snaking his arms around his waist.  There’s no getting around the fact that he’s _obviously hung_ , but, presented like this, Combeferre can for a moment understand why Enjolras is so obsessed with his cock.  The moment is fleeting, however, as his silhouette is marred by his erection, its slow growth sped dramatically as Enjolras traces his fingers over his abs and _bites_ into his shoulder.

 

Combeferre spies the dot of precum blossoming on the fabric, crowning the now-evident form of his penis.

 

“I can’t wear these to work,” he says, but wants to take it back when Enjolras is visibly devastated.  But he really can’t, so he does the next best thing, which is to turn in his boyfriend’s embrace and mouth at his cheek, and his nose, and his neck.  “Are you kidding me?  I lasted _five seconds_ before getting hard.  I need to get used to this.”

 

All of a sudden the nefarious glimmer is back in those blue eyes, and Enjolras cups the head of his lover’s dick through the briefs before squeezing, hard.  Combeferre gasps.  “But for now, they’re okay for just us?”

 

“They’re definitely okay for just us,” he pants.  And that’s all the invitation Enjolras needs to slip his fingers under his waistband, eliciting a low moan from his lover.

 

“Good.  Now take them off.”

**Author's Note:**

> I AM A BOXERS KIND OF DUDE FUFUFUFUFU
> 
> (Is one allowed to use the word “pilfering” in pornographic fanfiction? If not, forgive me, Mrs. Apples...though on another note, is one allowed to use the word “queer” in that sense any longer? With the connotations of “peculiar” turned up to eleven? I suppose I’m queer myself so it’s whatever, but still...)
> 
> (Oh, and shhh—[I’m](http://kalevala-sage.tumblr.com) not back. Not yet. Soon, when I’m slightly less homeless*)


End file.
